


Glory in the Flower

by Jimena



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with maybe not a happy ending but at least a hopeful one, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Spoilers through Campaign 2 Episode 31
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimena/pseuds/Jimena
Summary: Yasha grieves and heals and finds her way back





	Glory in the Flower

Yasha headed east, blindly placing one foot in front of the other, thunder in her ears and her heart. The storm inside and out raged on and on, drowning out the quiet voice in her head that said _stop,_ said _go back_ , that said _I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough_.

And if the voice in her head sometimes sounded like Molly, well, what was one more ghost to carry? She was strong enough for that; she could bear that burden, would bear that burden ‘til her last breath.

And if her shoulders bowed and shook when her feet finally refused to take another step and she made camp for the night, and the next, and the next, then that was just the exhaustion of the day catching up with her.

And if her face was wet when she woke from troubled sleep, figments of dreams and tattered nightmares burned away by the dawn, then that was just the price of being the Stormlord’s servant. A little morning rain never hurt anyone, let alone leave them feeling hollowed out and restless under an empty sky.

Empty. Wasn’t that what Molly had said? Was this what he’d felt like when he’d clawed his way out of his own grave? Like there was a gaping hole where his heart had been ripped from his chest? But no, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a hole; it was a knot, an ugly, twisted, writhing thing born of mingled rage and grief that seized the very breath in her lungs and froze the marrow in her bones if she examined it too closely.

So she didn’t.

The storm called, and she answered, and answered, and answered. She couldn't afford not breathing in the heat of battle, and to freeze mid-swing when facing a giant was certain death, so she tucked her heart away between the pages of a book buried in the bottom of her pack and lost herself in icy rage and the thrill of fights hard-won. Lightning danced across the backs of her eyes when she laid her head down, and the rumble of distant thunder echoed in the empty space between her ribs, a call, a comfort, a promise of work to be done, and done, and done until one night she looked up to a sky studded with stars and a nearly full moon glowing high overhead, nary a cloud in sight.

Yasha hesitated at the crossroads, scarred and battered hands tightening around the straps of her pack as she waited for a streak of lightning, a crack of thunder, a distant storm, _anything_ to guide her next steps, but nothing came that night. Or the next.

On the third night, restless, Yasha pulled out her book of flowers for the first time in months, leafing listlessly through the pages in the dim light of her campfire. It was just as it was before… The knot in her chest tightened, and she choked on a breath before shaking her head and closing the book with a sigh. She didn’t know why she’d even bothered unburying it. The land here was as cold and barren as she felt; there were no flowers to add even if she’d wanted to. She brushed her hand over the cover, pausing as she felt a faint pull in her chest, but when she looked up, there was no storm in sight, only the full moon sinking below the horizon. She frowned, rubbing the spot where she’d felt the pull, but the sensation was gone as soon as it came, and she eventually dismissed it as nothing.

Only it wasn’t nothing. She felt the same pull clear night after clear night, always as the moon was setting, a pull that only grew stronger the longer she ignored it, stubbornly turning her back to the warm wind that carried with it a hint of spring to come.

She couldn’t even escape it in her dreams. The moon’s light was almost blinding in its brilliance there, a brilliance marred only by the single grey stormcloud that passed across its face, faint thunder growling and rumbling almost like an admonishment in her ears, though she always woke to clear skies and sunshine.

The moon was but a sliver in the night sky when she finally caved. She packed up her meager belongings slowly, drawing out the inevitable. Frost formed around her in the cool night air as she let out a long breath before settling her pack and turning her face towards the setting moon.

Squaring her shoulders and placing one foot in front of the other, Yasha headed west.

There were a few storms along the way, but in between, it was the moon that guided her steps as it led her back, back, back until she finally found herself walking down a familiar road. She slowed, the last remnants of winter snow crunching heavily underfoot in the dim moonlight before she finally came to a stop in front of a marker that would forever be burned into her memory.

Against all odds, the coat was still there, a bit tattered at the edges, a bit worse for wear, but still standing tall in the face of everything the world had thrown at it. She ran one hand over it fondly, brushing off a light dusting of snow. She frowned suddenly, noticing that something about the marker looked different. She knelt down on one knee to get a better look. Molly’s name was carved into the wood, the letters giving off a faint golden glow when she ran her fingers over them. Underneath, a bundle of what looked like peacock feathers, flowers, and...buttons? was tied to the stake with blue ribbon, though the ribbon had started to tear and the flowers had long since dried and faded, crumbling to dust even in her gentle grip.

Yasha felt something in her chest slip as the wind caught the scattered pieces and sent them spinning into the air. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty air, voice hoarse from disuse. To who and for what exactly, she wasn’t sure, for not being there, for not being strong enough, for leaving so many things unsaid, but Molly had always been the one who was good with words, not her.

She pulled her book out, turning to the first page and the four-leaf clover tucked within. She plucked it carefully from between the pages and undid the tie on one of her braids.

_For luck_ , Molly’s ghost whispered in her memory. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see the wink as he bowed and proffered it during her first days with the circus. _Everyone could use a bit more of that._

_Should have kept it for yourself_ , Yasha thought, steadfastly keeping her eyes open as she tied it to the marker with a simple knot. It wouldn’t last, but that wasn’t the point...or maybe it was; she wasn’t sure. She let her head fall forward until she was nearly doubled over.

Her toes were going numb and the moon hung low on the horizon by the time she stirred again. She ran one hand over her cheeks, scrubbing away the layer of frost that had settled there. She rose on unsteady feet, turning to place her book pack in her pack.

A red, silk flower tumbled to the ground like a splash of blood staining the snow below. Molly had been right; it hadn’t pressed well between the book’s pages. She stooped down to retrieve it and paused, frowning as a faint bit of color beneath the snow caught her eye even in the dim light.

She brushed some of the snow away, revealing a small clump of bright purple flowers, petals barely unfurled, the first signs of coming spring. She plucked one carefully, one corner of her mouth curling up into something that resembled a smile for the first time in what felt like months. She tucked the purple flower between the first pages of her book, next to the faint outline of a four-leaf clover, before shutting it with an air of finality and stashing it away.

She stood tall, brushing the snow off her pants. She turned her face to the moon and with a few deft motions, wove the silk flower into her hair, a token, a remembrance, a memorial to join all the others. “Thank you,” she said once she was done, glancing over her shoulder, and it sounded like _goodbye_.

Putting one foot in front of the other, Yasha continued walking, no longer following the storm or the moon, but instead Jester’s messages scattered like breadcrumbs throughout her travels, repeating the destinations to herself night after night like a mantra, like a prayer, so she wouldn’t forget, until one night she spotted distant firelight and heard achingly familiar voices on the evening breeze.

The voices faded into stunned silence as she stepped into the circle of light. Shades of blue and green and a bright, vibrant pink filled her vision, a sharp, almost dizzying contrast to the black, white, and grey her world had faded to in Molly’s absence. She blinked dazedly; she’d almost forgotten how warm and colorful the world could be.

Her pack fell to the ground with a thud, sword soon following. Yasha collapsed to the ground beside the fire, exhausted, from fighting, from traveling, from sheer, unremitting grief, she couldn’t say. She could hear talking, low voices and exclamations all around her, but the words sounded as if they came to her through a long tunnel, and she couldn’t make them out.

She looked up finally as warmth filled her veins, weariness and half-healed wounds fading away beneath Jester’s capable hands, only to find herself surrounded by a crowd of worried faces. She instinctively flinched back.

“Hey now, give her some room to breathe,” Fjord said quietly, ushering the others away. Jester patted her knee before rising to her feet and returning to unloading supplies from the wagon.

“It’s good to see you again,” Caleb said quietly, nodding to her as he walked the perimeter of their camp. Nott walked behind him, carefully unraveling a spool of silver thread. Yasha felt a slight tug at her waist and looked down to see a small yellow flower tucked into her belt. When she looked up, Nott held a finger to up to her lips before returning to her task.

Fjord squeezed her shoulder briefly before joining Beau where she was perched on top of the wagon, nominally keeping watch though she kept darting glances back over her shoulder.

“Would you like some tea?”

Yasha looked up into a stranger’s kind face. “I think,” she said slowly, carefully, mindful of the jagged edges, the silences that Molly had once filled without a second thought, silences that she had not filled in all the time she’d been gone, except for once. She cleared her throat. “I think that I would like that very much.”

And as she inhaled the soft scent of lavender from the steaming cup pressed into her hands, and let the warmth of the fire sink into her bones, and listened to the quiet conversations of her companions, no, her _friends_ , she felt the knot in her chest loosen just a bit, enough to breathe, to speak, to live again.

And if the crescent moon seemed to shine just a little brighter overhead for just a moment, well, it was a clear night, nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" by William Wordsworth which is...a very long poem, but there's a passage in it I've always liked:
> 
> What though the radiance which was once so bright  
> Be now for ever taken from my sight,  
> Though nothing can bring back the hour  
> Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;  
> We will grieve not, rather find  
> Strength in what remains behind.
> 
> Seemed fitting. And if anyone is curious, the flower growing at Molly's grave is pasqueflower, which is a very pretty flower and one of the very first flowers to bloom in the spring, even growing up through the snow. Anyways, hope ya'll enjoyed!


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